Munkácsi was a newspaper writer and photographer in Hungary, specializing in sports. At the time, sports action photography could only be done in bright light outdoors. Munkácsi’s innovation was to make sports photographs as meticulously composed action photographs, which required both artistic and technical skill.

Munkácsi’s legendary big break was to happen upon a fatal brawl, which he photographed. Those photos affected the outcome of the trial of the accused killer, and gave Munkácsi considerable notoriety. That notoriety helped him get a job in Berlin in 1928, for the Berliner Illustrirte Zeitung, where his first published photo was a race car splashing its way through a puddle. He also worked for the fashion magazine Die Dame.

More than just sports and fashion, he photographed Berliners, rich and poor, in all their activities. He traveled to Turkey, Sicily, Egypt, London, New York, and famously Liberia, for photo spreads in the Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung.

The speed of the modern age and the excitement of new photographic viewpoints enthralled him, especially flying. There are aerial photographs; there are air-to-air photographs of a flying school for women; there are photographs from a Zeppelin, including the ones on his trip to Brazil, where he crosses over a boat whose passengers wave to the airship above.

On March 21, 1933, he photographed the fateful “Day of Potsdam”, where the aged President Paul von Hindenburg handed Germany over to Adolf Hitler. On assignment for the Berliner Illustrirte Zeitung, he photographed Hitler’s inner circle, ironically because he was a Jew and a foreigner.

In 1934, the Nazis nationalized the Berliner Illustrirte Zeitung, fired its Jewish editor-in-chief, Kurt Korff, and replaced its innovative photography with pictures of German troops.

Munkácsi left for New York, where he signed on, for a substantial $100,000, with Harper’s Bazaar, a top fashion magazine. Innovatively, he often left the studio to shoot outdoors, on the beach, on farms and fields, at an airport. He produced one of the first articles illustrated with nude photographs in a popular magazine.

“Women are always complaining about men’s fascination with breasts. But what if men were absolutely indifferent to breasts? What would women do then with these things that serve one function once or twice in a lifetime, and the rest of the time are just in the way?”

Jonathan Carroll

Some call it the American obsession, but men everywhere recognize the hypnotic allure of a large and shapely breast. In The Big Book of Breasts, Dian Hanson explores the origins of mammary madness through three decades of natural big-breasted nudes. Starting with the World War II Bosom-Mania that spawned Russ Meyer, Howard Hughes’s The Outlaw and Frederick’s of Hollywood, Dian guides you over, around, and in between the dangerous curves of infamous models including Michelle Angelo, Candy Barr, Virginia Bell, Joan Brinkman, Lorraine Burnett, Lisa De Leeuw, Uschi Digard, Candye Kane, Jennie Lee, Sylvia McFarland, Margaret Middleton, Paula Page, June Palmer, Roberta Pedon, Rosina Revelle, Candy Samples, Tempest Storm, Linda West, June Wilkinson, Julie Wills, and dozens more, including Guinness World Record holder Norma Stitz, possessor of the World’s Largest Natural Breasts.

“We took pictures of the native girls, but they weren’t developed. . . we’re going back next week.”

Groucho Marx

The English-born photographer Constance Stuart Larrabee is known for two distinct bodies of work: her black and white prints of South Africa’s tribal people (Zulu, Ndebele, Lovedu, Swazi, Sotho, Transkei, and Bushmen) – produced in the ’30s and ’40s – and her Life magazine-style photo-journalism in which she documented the liberation of Europe from the Nazis.

Jacques Henri Lartigue (June 13, 1894 – September 12, 986) was a French photographer and painter.

Born in Courbevoie (a city outside of Paris) to a wealthy family, he is most famous for his stunning photos of automobile races, planes and fashionable Parisian women from the turn of the century.

Although Lartigue occasionally sold his pictures to the press and exhibited at the Galerie d’Orsay alongside Brassaï, Man Ray and Doisneau, his reputation as a photographer was not truly established until he was 69, with a retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in New York and the publication of a portfolio in Life. He now added his father’s first name to his own surname, becoming Jacques Henri Lartigue. Worldwide fame came three years later with his first book, The Family Album, followed in 1970, by Diary of a Century, conceived by Richard Avedon. In 1975 he had his first French retrospective at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris. For the rest of his life, Lartigue was busy answering commissions from fashion and decoration magazines.

“There are plenty of good reasons for fighting, but no good reason ever to hate without reservation, to imagine that God Almighty Himself hates with you, too.”

Kurt Vonnegut

James Nachtwey (born March 14, 1948) is an American photojournalist and war photographer. He has been awarded the Overseas Press Club’s Robert Capa Gold Medal five times. In 2003, he was injured by a grenade in an attack on his convoy while serving as aTime contributing correspondent in Baghdad, from which he has made a full recovery.

hard to pick the featured images/as every shot is pure fire/like capa on crack/capturing every aspect of living with violence/squeezing the human condition down to a pin-point of light/the human struggle/sentient bags of translucent tubes, blood, gristle/torn open and spilling like garbage bags/but more importantly/showing such emotion

The rough-tough guys and wide-eyed Dolls who get their kicks from BENZEDRINE!

and saturday night drinks in bars where all the ladies bad dentistry/dolphin and tribal tattoos adorn tired flesh/dirty flat beers with the best company/but me on the sleazier side of drunk/watching karaoke kings and queens/once upon a time I was falling in love/now I’m only falling apart/as the doors lock and the kerry katona iceland treats come out on paper plates/tandoori chicken bites and soggy goujons/the dirtiest tapas you ever saw disappear with drained pints of stale lager/and we three slip away/a blur of taxi rides through the misty streets/into the a.m./where dark rooms shuffle a sinister cabaret of shemales/fags in drag/and a muted hard-on in my trousers/and I can hear the static noise of drunk in my ears/playground legends just tourists in this grim safari/too drunk to be disgusted or to get my dick sucked in the back room/she says she wants it rough/for me to pull her hair/and call her a dirty slut/but that nausea I can’t shake/like the dirt in my belly I can never throw up hard or deep enough to get out/and breakfast fried plantain with scrambled eggs and peppers/and that cool cat from not that far back/wants hot-dogs

“Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone.”

Octavio Paz

too cold to go to the dogs/too far to go to wimbledon/to tired to drink/the evening feels like Cheryl Cole/a dismal dear I’m sick of looking at and I cant be bothered to hoist my dirty dick into/overexposed and jaded/I’ve seen it all before/tired of looking at her like all I can see is the cracks in the veneer/lets just watch movies and eat caribbean food from Kay Kay’s/ignore eachother/but still not feel alone/and whilst the world shifts/forever temporary/I want something that is forever/a point of reference other than myself/I can’t be trusted to tell the difference between what’s real or a dream/ I’d rather jerk off/to some random lady/a human kerplunk with veined black cocks knocking round her marbles/a visceral war of attrition/on wide 6/that never updates regularly enough/I need something new/a voyage of vaginal variety/but beaten by the world/beating some life into this disenchanted organ/and after/with pearly finger webs/and you lay there like a baby/mess on the sheets/for what could be forever/the complete desire to be alone subsides into loneliness

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